Once Rarity’s walking lessons had ended, the unicorn had set about transforming her boutique into a suitable auditorium. Lights were hung from the tall ceiling, both traditional Hearth’s Warming decorative bulbs and strong spotlights that could illuminate the stage below. Then came the runway, brought out in pieces and connected to make the long walkway. A simple roll of fabric atop the platform hid its fragmentary nature. A set of chairs and benches soon came out to surround the stage and runway.

Tempest helped Rarity with the endeavor, both silent save for directions about the positions of the stagecraft. Perhaps the fashionista recognized the toil of the day would allow no idle chit-chat, or that her lessons had exhausted Tempest. However, Tempest could tell by the constantly shifting eyes and the manic dashes between the chairs that Rarity was nervous. Too much leaned on this fashion show, and the unicorn knew she could not falter if her reputation was to remain intact.

Thus, Tempest did not push her for more information throughout the rest of the day, and quietly departed after the final chair was set.

“Be here tomorrow at noon sharp!” Rarity called out as Tempest stepped toward the door. “We’ll go over a few more things before the other models show up!”

And so Tempest did, arriving five minutes early on Hearth’s Warming Day. To her surprise, Rarity did not demand any more walking exercises, but instead more measurements. Ever the perfectionist, Rarity would not be satisfied by the previous day’s fitting, and dragged Tempest to the first floor’s backroom to do one last check of the outfit. Every single inch of Tempest’s body was examined, every limb’s proportion carefully calculated. Tempest almost wanted to laugh at the fashionista’s devotion to the miniscule adjustments, but she begat no merriment at the scene.

Hate to admit it, Tempest thought, but her passion for these dresses is starting to rub off on me. Precision is the province of both military mares and fashion designers.

It was just as the final adjustment was made that the other models started coming into the boutique. Rarity dashed over to them, her directions and instructions pouring out with rapidity. Yet the mares, all lovely and prim, did not show any confusion over the fashionista’s commands, instead quickly filing upstairs to the fitting rooms to prepare themselves. Still in the backroom, none saw Tempest peeking out at them.

The other fashion moguls of Canterlot filed in soon afterwards, their luxury coats and designer hats being quickly given to the hat mares milling about the front door, who immediately brushed the newly fallen snow off the garments. The benches and chairs filled up quickly, and there was not a single empty space within a half hour. Indeed, a fair number of the participants found themselves standing toward the back, annoyed but still focused upon the stage in anticipation of the show.

None of the audience saw Tempest make her way from the backroom to behind the stage’s curtain. The hustle and bustle of the show distracted all eyes and made the unicorn just another face in the crowd. Even her fellow models, pressed into the limited space of the stage’s sides, did not react to Tempest at all. Likely the darkness of backstage and the tension in perfecting their own strolls down the runway kept their eyes from the broken horn upon her head.

Indeed, Tempest found herself pondering her own walk. Rarity’s directions echoed in her mind like an army slogan: steps below the chest and above the barrel, face firm but not passionless, the whole body in motion, legs never stiff. Tempest shuffled in place, trying her best to emulate the walk in the crowded space. The motions came easily, but the unmistakable look of nervousness filled her face.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Rarity’s voice whispered. Tempest turned to find her standing beside her. “Just do as we practiced, and you’ll be fine.”

Tempest chuckled. “And if I’m not, I’ll just kick every critic in the audience.”

“That’s the spirit! Stay loose, and you’ll find your rhythm.”

“Rarity!” a voice called. “We need a quick tie-off for Petunia’s dress!”

“Fiddlesticks!” Rarity gave a comforting pat on Tempest’s back. “Break a leg, or maybe two!” She then whisked off toward the voice.

Five minutes later, the show had started. Bland techno music started to pulsate through the boutique, and the first model began her walk. Tempest, huddled behind the curtain, could not see the audience nor the models as they strutted, but she could gauge the reaction based on the frequency of the crowd’s mutterings. The faster and louder the mumbles, the more approval a dress had. Utter silence was the sign the displayed dress was a total turkey. The few models unfortunate to gain the crowd’s disdain returned backstage with dismayed expressions.

Tempest shuffled in place. She was to be the last model, the coup de grace as Rarity called her. Her surprise appearance was meant to be a stunt, a shock against the gathered fashion heads’ comfort in the typical winter fashion show. From an artistic perspective, the choice made sense.

For Tempest, however, the feeling was more akin to a prisoner last in line for execution. There was no anticipation or excitement for her, only a grim readiness for catastrophe. At best, the audience would be disgusted by the mare and file out in droves, emptying the boutique before Tempest even finished her walk. At worst, a pony might jump upon Tempest and start a fight that’d snowball into an outright riot.

These ponies, Tempest mused, take their fashion seriously. Seeing me in their domain might drive them to madness.

Ever the planner, a million terrible scenarios played in Tempest’s head as each model made their way down the stage. Each possible disaster played in the former commander’s head, to the point that it was a shock when the stage director called out, “Fizzlepop! You’re up next!”

Tempest laughed. Of course Rarity registered me under my birth name. Hides my surprise appearance.

She strode forward to the opening in the curtain, staying just out of the light that streamed through. The steps of the second-to-last model grew louder and louder as she finished her walk. Her shadow started to fill the open space.

Three seconds to destruction, Tempest mused. The calm before the storm.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. No, she couldn’t have such thoughts. There was no room for doubt, for worry. Every campaign she’d fought had been with a cool mind and determined action. She would stroll out there, displaying Rarity’s Mare of Action dress, then walk back. The world would not end, the city of Canterlot would not burn, and Tempest would be back to her travels in no time.

And, on the off chance the fashion district chased Rarity out of town, Tempest would help her pack.

The model, a pure white mare with a lily-colored mane, strolled past Tempest. Her face was bland and unreadable.

“Go!” the stage manager called.

With controlled precision, Tempest stepped into the opening and walked out onto the runway.

The first thing she heard were the shocked gasps. Her eyes did not deviate from looking straight ahead to the runway’s end; Rarity’s training had grilled into her the need for the eyes to never move. Yet she still heard the surprised cries and fearful mumblings from the audience surrounding her.

“Ooooh!” one mare cried out, fainting to the floor.

Tempest’s every instinct told her to run backstage, or make a bolt for the front door. These ponies were shocked now, but in a moment, their eyes would fill with rage and they’d rush the stage, ready to tear her to pieces. She couldn’t fight all them off bare-hooved, despite her training, and she didn’t have the heart to start blasting the wretches with her destructive magical blasts. No, she needed to escape, she needed to-

A sharp breath filled her lungs. Keep to the march, soldier, she thought, her steps still echoing through the boutique. Do not break, no matter what the enemy is throwing at you. Keep going until Tartarus freezes over.

And so her walk continued. Her steps were high, but not above the chest. A firm expression filled her face, and her eyes stared ahead, with only the faintest squint. Clop, clop, clop, her hooves made upon the runway, in time with the music which blared on.

Reaching the runway’s end, Tempest struck a pose. One hoof lifted and the others planted into the platform, she cast a commanding gaze over the crowd. The murmurs died as the audience took in the strange mare, decked in her darksome fabric and leather garb, and silence ruled over the crowd.

Turning on her heel, Tempest started walking back to the curtain. Each step seemed louder than the next, but her rhythm never changed. She could feel the herd’s eyes taking in the skirt of the dress and the swaying of her body with each step. All eyes were upon her, for better or for worse, and none left her until she disappeared into the blackness behind the curtain.

The musical track blaring throughout the show came to an end. No words echoed throughout the boutique.

Tempest gave a mirthless chuckle. Well, silent hatred is better than physical assault. I guess I'll-

A fantastic roar went out through the crowd. Applause dominated the cacophony, with approving shouts coming out from different voices around the room. In the same moment, Tempest found herself being swarmed by the other models.

“You were fantastic!” the lily-maned white mare said. “Absolutely fantastic!”

“Yes!” a golden colored mare cheered. “Professional on every level, yet steeped in individual experience!”

“Teach me your walking ways, Commander!” a black-maned mare cried out.

“Thanks?” Tempest said, trying not to be crushed by her new fan club. Jostled closer and closer toward the curtain, Tempest heard the crowd’s whoops slowly transform into legible words.

“A fascinating choice,” a stallion’s voice intoned close to the stage. “Taking a persona associated with Equestria’s destruction and turning her into a beacon of action.”

“Yes!” a mare responded. “I thought perhaps they were relying too much on shock value, but Tempest’s walk and pose denoted a latent talent in presentational awareness!”

“She certainly fit the mold of the dress’s theme,” the stallion continued. “And nopony could doubt her credentials as a ‘Mare of Action’.”

“I’m certainly inspired by her!” the mare squeaked.

A strange sensation filled Tempest’s being. The shock started filtering out into puzzlement, the compliments of her fellow models and the audience starting to blur together in her ears.

They…liked me? It seemed too much like a dream. She was about to ask somepony to pinch her when a ball of white threw a hug around Tempest’s neck.

“You did it, darling!” Rarity cheered, squeezing Tempest tight. “You’re the toast of Canterlot’s Fashion Row!”

“I...How…” Tempest sputtered. “What did I do?”

Rarity broke her hug and looked dead into Tempest’s eyes. “You were yourself, Tempest! You walked like a proper model, but you also infused your own self into your walk. Powerful and precise, with a professional bent!” She gestured toward the open curtain. “You made a variation on a formula, and they saw it! Not just saw it, but understood it!”

Tempest rubbed the back of her head. “That’s great, because I sure don’t understand.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about the aesthetical elements, dear! Just bask in your glory! Come, come, they want to see you again!” She was dragging Tempest toward the open curtain, the applause still echoing through the boutique.

“Wait, Rarity!” Tempest called.

“Don’t get stage fright now, Tempest! We need to-“

Rarity felt herself jerked back. Before a shout could escape her, she found herself clutched in a bear hug. Surprise filled her face, before the grip released and Tempest stared down at her.

“Thank you, Rarity,” Tempest said, eyes glimmering.

“For what, darling?”

“For making me do this. I…I thought every Canterlot pony would hate me for as long as they lived. Because…” Her head started to hang. “…Because I would’ve hated anypony who did what I did to them.”

Rarity brought a hoof to Tempest’s chin and lifted her head up. A soft smile filled the fashionista’s face.

“Are you the same pony you were a year ago?” she asked.

Tempest smiled. “No.” She stood up straight. “But I know who I am now.”

Rarity pointed to the crowd outside, which had started chanting Tempest’s name. “And I think they know that now, too.”

Tempest strode forward and clasped Rarity upon the shoulder. “Then let’s show them Tempest Shadow.”

“A wonderful pony,” Rarity said, looping her front leg around Tempest’s neck.

Tempest looped her own leg around Rarity’s neck. “With a wonderful, fashionable friend.”

Rarity giggled. “Keep up the flattery, and I may have to make you the face of my spring line.”

“You know what? I wouldn’t mind that.”

The two friends grinned at each other as they walked onstage, and the crowd cheered when they saw their beaming faces.

Author's Note

I wanted to make the ending more bombastic, with a long drawn-out speech of Tempest saying what she learned, but I realized a quick thank you to Rarity said so much more than a long speech.